


The Lonely Genius

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fairy Tale Retellings, Friendship, Happy Ending, Kidlock, References to Drugs, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up is hard, especially if one grows up alone without a sense of belonging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lonely Genius

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 2!  
> Prompt: Choose a favorite fairy tale and rewrite it with characters from Sherlock.

The Holmes family lived a relatively quiet life, and a well off one at that. The then family of three resided in a hidden away mansion tucked on the outskirts of London. There were acres of freshly cut green grass with a path from the mansion to a large garden in the back, all fenced in as to keep the beauty to themselves. Ducks flocked to the large pond in the back every spring while bright flowers bloomed all around. The tallest of surrounding trees offered protection on the long summer days.

The young red haired boy who lived there, however, appreciated the beauty from afar. Tall and freckle faced, he stayed out of trouble and spent his time in the peacefulness of the inside world. To his peers, teacher, and all who knew him, he was the pride and joy of his parents. A handsome young gentleman, he was. Everything was well as far as any of them were concerned.

Soon, a surprise had come to the family. The unplanned event happened one cold January day in the midst of a bitter England winter. It was stubbornly late, of course, as these things sometimes are. After a bit of time, the sound of a baby's cries matched the howling wind knocking at the windows outside. The mother held her baby in her arms, wrapped warmly in a light blue blanket, and soothingly hushed him.

"He doesn't look a thing like his brother," the father remarked as he looked down at the newborn infant, "or really either of us, for that matter. A bit odd, isn't it?"

"Oh you be quiet now," the mother warned him softly. "He's just been barely born into the world. For now he just looks like, well, himself."

The young red haired who boy who had been standing timidly near the door wandered near the bed where his mother rested, cooing over the baby. Peering over the blankets, he was met with two vibrant blue eyes and a head of dark hair that curled wildly at the ends. He stared at his new baby brother with wonder and curiosity. A maid soon appeared and handed their mother a warm bottle.

It should have been obvious then that the baby would be entirely different. The young boy stood and watched the scene play out before him. Their mother tried and tried, but he just would not take to the bottle. Instead, it seemed that his younger brother had his eyes fixated on him the entire time in an almost concentrated gaze. The infant eventually scrunched up his face and turned his head away from their mother and quickly fell asleep.

Their mother sighed as he slept. "You _are_ going to be difficult, aren't you?"

Years passed quickly and the stubborn infant grew into a mischievous young boy. The opposite of his older brother, he spent his time learning about the world with a rather hands on approach. He stomped through the flowers in the garden, climbed high up in the trees, and fell into the pond more than a few times while observing the birds and fish. In the warmer months he chased after frogs and spent time trying to capture bees, of all things, in his tiny hands. When he wasn't learning, he let his imagination run wild. He would wave around a stick and claim to be a mighty pirate. Time and time again, he ended up draped over his big brother's shoulder, dirtied clothes along with messy curls and all, and carried back inside.

"Mycroft," he would protest as he flailed his legs and arms wildly, "put me down now! I was in the middle of something!"

"I'm sure you were, Sherlock," his older brother would sigh as he tightened his grip. "But it's time to come in now."

Sherlock would pout the rest of the evening.

When it came time for him to enroll in school, he was more than eager. Anything to get him out of the mundane everyday home life was refreshing. However, once there, he realized he should have known better. He was more advanced than the other children in his class, and he couldn't understand why they had to learn things so slowly.

Recess was a tedious time for him. His teacher encouraged him to make friends. Outside on the playground, it wasn't that easy. The other children whispered and snickered when he walked past and didn't invite him to play. They would laugh and frolic right on past him through the maze of the jungle gym. He would walk alone along the outskirts of the playground in the warm sunshine, longing to be back inside where the exclusion wasn't so obvious.

The lessons were boring to him. As the teacher would drone on and on, he began to watch his classmates. Soon enough he realized he could learn things by simply observing. Oh, how exciting that was! All the information he'd ever need to know about anyone laid out right in front of him like an open story book.

He'd decided to show off his new found skill at recess one crisp autumn day. He marched up to a group of children playing hopscotch and just stood.

"What do _you_ want?" asked one of the two little boys there. The boys crossed their arms defiantly at Sherlock as the little girl in the group stopped hopping.

"You wet the bed," he stated plainly, "it's so obvious." The young boy's mouth dropped open, but Sherlock wasn't finished. He turned to the other boy there. "You sleep with a nightlight because you're scared of the _boogeyman_ ," he said. Finally, he turned to the girl. "And you," he pointed to her as he scrunched up his face, "you pick your nose!"

Sherlock stood and smiled smugly at them as he waited for a response. The eyes of the little girl suddenly welled up with tears. She ran off towards the teacher as the other two boys looked at each other in shock. Sherlock's eyes followed after the girl in confusion. All he did, after all, was state the facts. The two boys turned on him.

"Why do you have to be so weird?" one of them asked as he towered over him.

"I'm not!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yes you are," said the other young boy as he came closer. "That's why no one likes you! That's why you have no friends!"

"Yeah," the first boy agreed as he stepped up to Sherlock and shoved him backwards. "You're such a freak!"

"No," Sherlock said softly as his lip quivered slightly.

"You are!" At that point, other children had wandered over to them and started in on the teasing. "Freak!" they taunted, mixed in with other insults.

He pushed his way through the crowd and started to run, but was swiftly stopped by his teacher.

"Young man, we need to talk," his teacher said firmly. Sherlock dropped his head as he was led inside the school building, the other children left outside laughing at him.

He sat alone after school in the room with his teacher until his mother arrived.

"I don't understand," she said, "he's in trouble for stating something he noticed?"

His teacher scrubbed a hand over her face. "Mrs. Holmes, please try to understand. The other children in his class are doing well. They're eager to learn, excited to do new things, and are making friends. They've all progressed well." His teacher gave him a sideways glance. "Sherlock, however, has done none of those things since the semester started."

"His marks show otherwise," she protested.

"Yes," she agreed "but he's made no effort whatsoever to join the class, so to speak. He zones out while the others are learning, claims that things are too boring, and has yet to make a friend. He's isolating himself and I'm concerned how that can affect him."

Sherlock sank deeper into his chair. He just wanted to go home and forget this entire day. He peered over the desk and began to observe his teacher. _Not very keen on children, took the job for money_ , he noticed.

"And the other children," his mother started, "what about them? The name calling and harassment of my son, don't you think that deserves some looking into?"

_Dislikes home life, single, but not by choice. New bracelet - must be going on a date._

His teacher clasped her hands together. "That's the way of the world, unfortunately. Children will be children. They will be warned to let him be, of course." She looked at Sherlock again, who quickly averted his eyes to the floor. "But, this young man needs to start behaving like a _normal_ child."

Nothing was said for a minute or two, but he soon felt his mother's gaze upon him.

"Right, I think we're done here. Come along, Sherlock."

Sherlock slid off of his chair and followed his mother out to the car. The next day at school when he noticed his teacher's date hadn't gone well at all, he grinned to himself. As for the rest of his school experience, it had gone over much the same as the day before. The other children taunted him whenever he walked past, and refused to work or even play with him at all. He knew he was brighter, but he still envied them and their ability to be carefree with friends. He'd never had any, and it didn't look like he would ever fit in. He was different.

The label ' _freak_ ' forever echoed in his mind, and in time, he even came to believe it.  
  
He eventually stopped pretending to be a mighty pirate. The child who saw the world as huge and exciting had his imagination stripped from him. There would be no more time for fairy tales.

Life went on that way for few more years, and he grew used to it. He distanced himself from the emotional feeling an insult would leave on any other child. His attackers ran out of ideas and frankly Sherlock grew tired of them. He knew he stood out, and made no attempt to hide it. Instead, he grew alone and learned alone and played alone. But he was okay, really. And with that, he came to learn so much of the world and the people in it.

It was a dreary day to day drift until he piped up at his family dinner one night. It started with ramblings about his father's clothes, and then to his briefcase, and then the way his hair was combed before it eventually drifted to his working hours and obvious affair. It ended with his mother fleeing from the room in tears with Mycroft trailing after, and his father staring at him angrily.

"You," he hissed, "it was all fine until you came along, you accident child." He stood and walked away, muttering to himself, "I wish you'd never been born."

Sherlock sat at the table for only a moment before he bolted out to the garden with tears threatening to spill from his eyes. In the bright moonlight he found his way to the pond and sat at the edge, watching the ducks. Faint yelling could be heard coming from the home. Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them. The thought hadn't occurred to him before, not being born. But in that moment he wished for it to be so.

He felt the presence of his older brother sitting down next to him and a comforting hand on his back.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, "I know you're not like other children, but this really must stop."

Sherlock sniffed and peeked at his brother under the mess of curls hanging over his face. Again, all he'd done was state what he'd noticed. He didn't understand why other people were so blind to the obvious, or why they were offended by the things right under their noses. He also didn't understand why it was a bad thing to notice, but it was. He couldn't help it, it wasn't something he could just turn off with the flip of a switch.

"Listen, little brother. I'm leaving soon for uni-"

"You're abandoning me!" Sherlock exclaimed. He knew that, of course, but it didn't make it better.

"No," he said calmly, "I'm not. But while I'm away, you need to grow up a bit. Stop deducing things out loud, you know nobody appreciates that. Showing off will get you nowhere. Be nice, make some friends," Mycroft said as he ruffled his younger brother's hair. Sherlock quickly pulled away, and Mycroft let out a breath. "For your own sake, Sherlock, attempt to be _normal_. Just once. Why can't you do that?"

Sherlock quickly turned his attention back to the flock of ducks calmly swimming across the pond. The sounds of crickets echoed in the distance and the stars reflected brightly off the water. As brothers, they didn't always get along. In fact, it was rare. But Mycroft understood Sherlock more than anyone. And yet there he was, trying to change who he was and then abandon him in a place where he'd never felt more alone all at once. It was almost too much.

"I hate you," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"No, you don't," Mycroft sighed.

"Yes I do," Sherlock said as he stood up. "I hate you, I hate you!" He glared at his older brother with his little chest heaving in anger.

"Alright," Mycroft said. "But with as intelligent as you are, you'll soon learn that I'm right." Mycroft stood from the ground and turned away. "Goodnight, Sherlock." With that, he walked back to the house.

Sherlock sat back down cross legged at the pond all night, crossing his arms and glaring at the house in which he lived. Home was a place where you felt safe and loved and wanted. What exactly was this? It was hours before silence finally came from the house, but he stayed put. One by one, the lights of the house went out without him. The stars above him danced their way across the night sky as the cold breeze weaving through the trees made him shiver.

 _Everyone hates me_ , he thought, _because I_ am _a freak_.

He scowled bitterly at the night. Differences were supposed to be good, were they not? Then why was he being put out for being himself? It was a thing he was never sure he'd be able to understand. He was now fully alone in the world, with not even his brother on his side any longer. The thought occurred to him that perhaps loneliness wasn't a bad thing. Being alone, of course, meant not having to deal with such emotions, and what a freedom that would be. He decided right then and there that he would get through this life alone, more so than before. It was all he had to protect him.

He grew up just like that. He never tried to change anything just in spite of his brother. He used his skills as a way to keep people out. From a distance, he observed usual behaviors of those around him. He learned how to use such mannerisms to charm others into getting things he'd needed to stop being bored. In reality, he was always bored, and would do just about anything to make it go away.

In his later teenage years, that even included a new found habit, and an illegal one at that. He simply didn't care, just as long as he wasn't bored. He would look at his peers around him with a hatefulness and, though he'd never admit it, a slight jealousy. After all, he'd never known what it was like to have a friend. He shut himself away from the world with a dependency on his latest habit and a cloak of a protective solitary life. It always felt as if he was running from something, or to something. He just never knew which.

University found him in much the same way. A breath of fresh air away from the house he grew up in. It was a nice place, of course, with beautiful surrounding scenery and filled with others who wanted to be there, not just those who were forced to go, such in his previous years. The school had been thrilled to have him with the high marks he'd received. A prize to be had, they had said. Sherlock shrugged it off. He knew they hadn't actually cared about him, but rather how the scores would make them look.

He slipped through the halls quietly, only speaking to make an obvious observation to others who were to blind to see. He often spoke up in class, corecting the mistakes of the proffessors, which no one seemed to appreciate. The other young adults at university had formed groups and cliques and friendships, and then there was Sherlock. Tall and thin with his piercing gaze and somewhat calmer curls, he was still alone. He preferred it that way. At least, he convinced himself that he did.

Though, he couldn't always be left alone. He was forced to room with another young man about his age, Sebastian. Sebastian slacked off tremendously and constantly left for parties and would come barging in at the most inconvenient times. Those times included when Sherlock needed absolute silence to read, or to conduct an experiment, or even to think. He wasn't shy about his deductions, though. He never had been. He would flat out tell Sebastian and his friends what they'd been doing the previous night or things about their home lives, and would watch as they stumbled over themselves.

"You know," Sebastian began one night in their dorm after a few beers, "you really should stop being so weird, with your magic tricks and all. It's getting old."

Sherlock took his eyes from a book he'd been reading and stared blankly at him. "It's not a trick."

"Yeah, well, whatever it is. You can stop now. Everyone hates you, you know," he slurred. "Stop being such a freak."

The didn't hit him quite the way it used to, as he'd been successful at distancing himself. But, it still wasn't pleasant. "Why?" he asked. "Would that make you feel better about yourself, if I were to dumb myself down to your low IQ? It's hardly my fault you're all idiots."

Sebastian quickly stood up, facing him. "I don't understand you," he said, "and I don't think anyone can! Look at you, you're going to end up all alone. What are you good for, besides those magic tricks of yours, hmm? You don't write, you have no social skills, you obviously don't play sports," Sebastian said with a laugh. "You sit in here and scratch at that violin and conduct these pointless experiments! On top of all that, you're just terrible to be around. What exactly are you doing, what are you _good_ for?"

Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "I don't have to conform to anything, Sebastian. Contrary to popular belief, I don't have to please anyone but myself."

"Rubbish! You have all these stupid thoughts in your head, and I can't take it anymore."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. _My thoughts are anything but stupid._

"I'm only saying this to help you. You have the money, people who want to know you, and everything at your hands, yet you're choosing to ignore all of that and for what? Because you don't care for it? You don't get what you want, you take what you get and go with it. That's life, mate."

Sherlock winced, Sebastian could hardly be called that. It was never about anyone else, he didn't care about anyone else, all he needed was happiness for himself. And that would be enough... Once he found it.

"Go to sleep, Sebastian. You're drunk."

"Yeah, probably. But at least I'm not a freak."

Sebastian left, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock ruffled his fingers through his hair and wished for it all to be over. He sighed and slipped his long arm underneath the bed until he found a small wooden box. Escaping from existence tonight, then.

After he had graduated university, he ventured out into the world without any thought or care as to where he was going. To entertain himself, he read papers and specifically stories about unsolved crimes. He would investigate from afar, and his suspicions were right. Always right. But, no one would listen to a seemingly homeless man with an addiction.

Throughout the few years that began to pass, he spent a lot of time sleeping rough. Little back alleyways, tramways, empty buildings, you name it. He made not friends, but acquaintances, and he would lie and steal to feel the high of escaping. It changed one year. Winter soon fell along with the temperatures. He would walk the streets and watch people to pass time. The holidays brought more people to the shops than usual. They would smile and laugh and chatter about and pass him by with careful glances. Sherlock hated it.

He made his way to an empty park as the long night approached and sat himself down on a bench. _Christmas, a time to be spent with those that make you happy_ , he thought. _Ridiculous_. All he had was himself, still. God, he envied them, their minds, their ability to blend in, the ability to be blind to all surroundings... Their not being alone. He sighed. Life as he knew it was becoming duller with each passing moment.

Snow began to fall from the skies and blanket the ground quickly. Sherlock stretched out on the bench and stared at the darkened clouds. It was pointless to think about what could never be. There was no changing, now. He was who he was, and it would stay that way whether he lived the rest of his life like this or not. He reached into the deep pockets of his tattered coat and took out what he had left of his habit. He played with it in his hands a while as the wind whipped violently around him. Slowly, he let oblivion take him once more, not caring about where he was or what he was doing, or the fact that the cold snow was lashing against his face. He was bored, simply, of everything.

Christmas morning had come and the snow had stopped. All of London was frozen over in a blanket of white and ice. By midday, Sherlock hadn't woken yet, and might not have if it weren't for a passerby. A man with salt and pepper flecked hair had made his way through to the park on Christmas day to enjoy the crisp serenity of the freshly fallen snow. He noticed a bundle on one of the benches, and on closer inspection, realized it was a man. He had to have been in his late twenties or early thirties, pale as the surrounding snow, and not moving. The man with the salt and pepper hair shook him steadily, but he just would not wake up.

Sherlock woke up on Christmas evening in a hospital. He was dazed and a bit disoriented, but he was warm. He cracked his eyes open and in surprise found a tired man sitting next to his bed. The man was in the middle of reading and not paying him any attention. He stared at him for a long moment, trying to think of where he knew his face, and then he finally spoke.

"You're Detective Inspector Lestrade," he croaked.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade nearly jumped out of his seat. "Scared me, kid. How did you know that?"

"Papers," Sherlock said. "Obviously."

"Obviously," he echoed. "Right. Look, I found you earlier today half frozen to death and strung out on a park bench, and I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Sherlock stared at him. "I'm fine. I suspect after my recovery I'll be taken in on charges, and I have nothing else to say. Good evening." Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for him to leave.

Lestrade gawked at him for a moment, and then sighed. He gathered up his coat and made his way to the door when Sherlock suddenly spoke again.

"You're working on the Doyle case," he said suddenly. "But you've got it all wrong. It was the husband, but the daughter is in on it, too. Get a warrant and look in their attic, _really look_. You'll see that I'm right."

"And if you're wrong?"

"I won't be."

Lestrade stood in apparent contemplation for a moment. "Listen kid -"

"Sherlock," he interrupted. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock. Listen. How about we make a deal, hmm? If you're right about the Doyle case, I'll forget about the charges. If you're wrong, the charges stay."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Fine. You'll see that I'm right." Sherlock then rolled over and went back to sleep.

And he was right, of course. Lestrade held his word. When Sherlock was released from the hospital a couple of days later, Lestrade was there waiting for him with a scarf and a flowing dark wool coat.

"Thought these might come in handy," he said. "Keep yourself warm, eh? And maybe if you clean up a bit, you can help us out more often." Lestrade turned away and left a slightly dumbfounded Sherlock in his wake. He pulled the dark coat over his arms and wrapped the scarf warmly around his neck and made his way through the city.

He did, in fact, clean up. Lestrade let him in on more cases and it fueled his mind like nothing before. But, he was still an acquaintance. There were two who worked with Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan. They were kind to him initially, but after Sherlock deduced facts about their lives they'd rather have kept hidden, the kindness stopped and the name calling began. It was okay, though. He was used to it. He eventually met a bright young woman named Molly who was kind enough let him conduct experiments at Bart's. Then there was Mrs. Hudson, who treated him kindly, but it still wasn't enough.

Soon he found himself living at 221B Baker Street. He had made a bit of a name for himself and even invented his own job. He was content with life, yes, but there was still something missing. He went from case to case with experiments inbetween, but there was still a void. _I don't need anybody_ , he said to himself. _Alone is what I have, alone protects me_.

It happened one day at Bart's. Mike brought in an old friend, obviously looking for a flatmate. Sherlock had money, of course, from his family. But he refused to touch it and instead worked on his own. He did need a flatmate, just someone to share the rent with, didn't matter if they liked him or not. _No one will_ , he thought, _what's the point in charm?_

Something struck him about the army doctor John Watson, and he wasn't exactly sure what it was. He rattled off details about his life and left with a cheeky wink out the door to the mortuary. When they met at the flat the next day, Sherlock didn't bother with niceties. When Lestrade showed up with a case, he was excited and ready to leave John behind, but something changed his mind, and he would always be glad for whatever it was.

In the cab, Sherlock went on and laid out his thought process in front of them both and then braced himself. Everyone he had ever known disliked it when he did that. They told him to piss off, called him a freak, or even reacted violently. Sherlock turned away and bit the inside of his mouth and braced himself in preparation for whatever lashing he was about to get.

John had been put into stunned silence for only a moment. "That... Was amazing!"

Sherlock honestly didn't know what to say. Compliments on a skill he had perfected were unknown to him. Even into his thirties, no one had said anything positive about it. Instead, he was used to the barrage of insults.

He blinked and spoke quietly. "Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

The night went on from there. A serial murder mystery, oh how he loved to solve those. There were more compliments than Sherlock had gotten his entire life, and it made him smile. When the two men chased a cab through the dimly lit streets and ran from the police, he found a thrill he'd never known before. And when they ended up back at the flat in full out laughter, he realized he couldn't quite remember the last time he'd felt such a rush. After the gunfire, after the shock blanket, there were realizations that perhaps John wasn't exactly _normal_ either, and that that was okay. Maybe normality wasn't all it was cracked up to  be.

Sherlock and John walked to the end of Baker Street to refuel with trails of laughter escaping their lips. Well into the night there were stories and smiles and he'd never felt so good. He had never felt so _happy._ It took minimal amount of time for them to adjust to each other, but they did. Their friendship grew quickly and became cemented between them. Time would tell their story well, the tale of two not at all normal people who found happiness and the thrill of living. Two people who absolutely needed each other. They would laugh, live adventurously, and sometimes they would fight, but in the end it was certain - they had become the most important person in each other's lives. They would do anything for each other including live and die for one another.

They both had a friend, and a better friend neither of them could ever ask for. They were two halves of a whole, the missing puzzle pieces to their lives had been finally found and put together. And neither of them were lonely anymore.


End file.
